


I Would Now

by amateurwordbender



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Male-Female Friendship, Natasha Romanov Feels, Past Drowning, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Team as Family, allusions to the Red Room and everything that comes with that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-12 15:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21478483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amateurwordbender/pseuds/amateurwordbender
Summary: Steve finds himself glad that she isn’t in the middle of target practice, though he knows logically that she could kill him a dozen different ways no matter what she has in her hands. Or with no hands. It probably says something about his sense of self-preservation that this fact makes him admire her more than fear her.(5 times Steve asks Natasha a personal question +1 time when he doesn't have to)(or: a look at Steve and Natasha's friendship over the years)
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov
Comments: 24
Kudos: 117





	1. 2012

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll be honest, this first chapter is mostly just 2012 domestic Avengers nostalgia, so apologies in advance for all the exposition as Steve feels out his new situation. And a big thanks to @likearollingstony on tumblr for beta reading!

Steve doesn’t think that any of them really planned on moving in. But here they are, nearly a month after the media-dubbed Battle of New York, all six of them living—not permanently, of course—in Stark’s building. 

Dr. Banner was the first to take up Stark’s offer of temporary housing. It seems the two of them had hit it off remarkably well during the whole alien invasion thing, despite the fact that Banner was extra vulnerable to provocation and Stark was extra unable to stop himself from provoking everyone around him. Nevertheless, they’d formed a bond born of scientific jargon, and when Steve arrived less than two weeks after all of them had presumably parted ways, he found Bruce already here, with a personalized private lab that was at least triple the size of the one on the helicarrier. He’d welcomed Steve alongside their host with a small smile and a shrug, saying something about how he could do more good here than he did when he was hiding away in a remote corner of India. 

Steve had arrived with far more reluctance. He’d caught on to the fact that he wasn’t exactly Stark’s favorite person, and sure, fixing falling aircraft and fighting aliens from outer space together had eased that tension, but he still didn’t want to intrude. After SHIELD had thawed him out, they’d given him a place to stay, and it had been fine, for a while. Really, all Steve needed was four walls and a bed, and he definitely didn’t need any fancy 21st century flair. He had a bedroom, a bathroom, a kitchen, full access to a plain but private gym, and he was grateful. 

But after the invasion, something changed. The space was still physically comfortable; that wasn’t the problem. It was just—he’d grown up in the heart of Brooklyn, raised in the bustle of life that only came from being surrounded by people. And his SHIELD-issued quarters were the definition of isolation—likely on purpose to give him time to acclimatize and settle in. But once he really did start to adjust to the new era, to get used to the hollow ache of loss in his chest for Bucky and Peggy that would always be there, once he’d found a _ purpose _ in a world that had changed so much yet still needed him to fight, he found himself missing that liveliness. He missed people.

At first, he tried finding housing in Brooklyn again. That quickly became a bust. Prices were steep, modern real estate gave him headaches, and he really didn’t have anonymity anymore. He wanted to be living beside people, not swamped by fans. So he called someone who he knew wouldn’t treat him like a celebrity.

Stark had been surprisingly gracious about the whole thing. He hadn’t asked questions, only said to give him a few days, and when Steve showed up in the Tower lobby with his few personal belongings in a duffel, Stark had already prepared an entire floor for him. It was, as expected, far more extravagant than the one from SHIELD, but he (or perhaps Ms. Potts) seemed to have exercised a great deal of restraint, and Steve’s apartment had simple enough furnishings that he wasn’t uncomfortable. Tony had even included helpful printed instructions by every piece of complicated tech, and Steve had a feeling they weren’t even meant to be entirely mocking. 

Barton and Romanoff joined them shortly afterwards, inseparable as they’d been since reuniting on the helicarrier. They’d each been given their own floors too, but from what Steve could tell, they both spent those first few nights holed up on Romanoff’s. Not that it was any of his business. 

One night, he overheard her explaining to Tony that Clint needed to recover away from SHIELD, to be around people who didn’t constantly watch him like he was going to break or turn on them again. Apparently SHIELD agents weren’t as good at hiding their thoughts as they should’ve been—or maybe Barton was just too good at detecting them. In any case, Steve made sure that he just treated Barton like a normal human being and didn’t try to talk about any of the mind control business. It didn’t occur to him until later that Romanoff had probably allowed him to overhear her for that very reason.

Nobody expected the Norse god of thunder to stay in the—lavish, yes, but nonetheless very human—apartments that Stark offered. The first time, he’d arrived to check in and update them on the Loki situation. The second, it was something vague about being in the area. Then Thor stopped bothering to come up with excuses. Overnight visits increased in frequency, and he even brought his badass astrophysicist girlfriend on occasion. 

Now, they’ve settled into something of a routine. Steve’s starting to get used to this motley crew of roommates. It isn’t uncommon for him to find Bruce sitting by the breakfast bar of the communal kitchen with a tablet in hand, or to spend nights on the weekends laughing as Tony and Thor engage in some kind of drinking contest that the god is always, always going to win. He’s even started to bump into Clint on morning jogs when the weather forces him to run indoors, in one of those unbelievably decked out gyms downstairs. 

It really hits him one Saturday afternoon, as he’s lounging on the top floor of the Tower—recently repaired and redecorated after it was destroyed by the invasion. There’s nothing unusual going on. Steve’s on one of the couches, capturing the view on a sketchpad that he found propped by his door with his name on it one day. Bruce and Tony are over by the bar, gesturing at one of those floating screens and debating something Steve isn’t going to try to follow. Thor is sitting on the floor with his back resting against the couch, munching on an impressive sandwich and gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Even Clint is sitting a few feet away, busy fiddling with a newly enhanced quiver that Tony modified for him. A breeze ripples in from one of the windows JARVIS opened, and Steve realizes with a mild start that it’s the first time he’s truly felt at ease since he woke up in the 21st century.

They’re all getting along more smoothly. Steve would call his fellow Avengers acquaintances, by now. Certainly colleagues who are friendly with one another and happen to live together. But even though it’s getting easier—and they’re not grating against each other’s nerves as much anymore, and maybe they even enjoy each other’s company—there’s still something missing. They’re not exactly a _ team _ yet. Steve puts down his pencil, looking around with a frown. Well, how can they be a team, when one of their members is never around? It’s the one thing that hasn’t changed. 

“Hey, Barton.” The man glances up from a twisted metal arrowhead, cocking an eyebrow. Steve keeps his voice casual, though he’s certain Clint will be able to sense the undercurrent of hesitancy anyway. “Where’s Romanoff?”

“Nat? She’s in the main gym.” Clint flips the arrowhead over, index finger tracing a groove in the metal. “Why, do you want to call an official team meeting, Cap?” His mouth has a sarcastic twinge to it that has been appearing more and more frequently as he’s recovered.

“No, nothing. Just wondering.” Steve returns to his sketchpad, trying to put the matter out of his thoughts. If Natasha doesn’t want to spend her time around them, he highly doubts he can change her mind. 

But what if something’s going on? Steve had thought she’d started to warm up to him during the battle, and he remembers genuinely enjoying fighting by her side, as much as anyone can enjoy fighting for their life and all of New York. Maybe she just needs more time to get used to them all. And if something really is going on, he’s sure that Clint will help her with it. 

Still, it just doesn’t sit right with Steve to not check in when she’s pulled back so suddenly from the rest of them. Because she has to be pulling back on purpose. They’re all living in the same building, for crying out loud. And sure, it’s a big building, and she could be staying on her own floor most of the time, but she must be using the gyms, and Steve is down there all the time, doing his therapeutic punching. Or how about when she leaves the Tower? She’s still employed with SHIELD even if Clint isn’t as active with them anymore—she has to leave for work sometimes, right? It just doesn’t seem like a coincidence that Steve almost never runs into her. 

With an internal sigh, he closes his sketchpad and gets up. He knows Clint is watching him leave out of the corner of his eye, but the man doesn’t say anything, so Steve takes it as a hopeful sign that he’s not going to be murdered in his sleep for this.

“JARVIS, take me to the main gym, please,” Steve says as he steps into one of the elevators. It does function manually, too, but with 93 floors to keep track of, it’s easier to just let the AI deal with it.

“Certainly.”

The elevator dings pleasantly as he reaches one of the two residential floors dedicated to fitness—or training, really, even if Tony insists they’re not soldiers. No normal fitness center has a virtual combat simulator or an entire room for archery.

Steve makes his way to the one that could be deemed normal for the average billionaire. Romanoff is at one of the weight lifting machines. Steve finds himself glad that she isn’t in the middle of target practice, though he knows logically that she could kill him a dozen different ways no matter what she has in her hands. Or with no hands. It probably says something about his sense of self-preservation that this fact makes him admire her more than fear her.

Romanoff gives him a nod as he walks in. She looks like she’s been expecting him to arrive; either she and Barton have some telepathic link, or she somehow sensed his footsteps past the soundproof door. Both seem pretty likely, in all honesty. 

“Mind if I join you?”

She finishes a rep and makes a magnanimous gesture. “Not at all. I’m nearly finished, anyway.” She doesn’t seem to be lying or even mildly uncomfortable, but Steve knows better than to trust appearances around the Black Widow. 

“Thanks.” He grabs a pair of boxing gloves, absently fitting them on. He doesn’t realize he’s frowning until she speaks again. 

“Something the matter, Rogers?” There’s an innocent note in her voice. Steve lets out a quiet breath, looking down at his hands. He wasn’t planning on coming out and saying it, but, well, if she’s going to ask him directly… 

“Why are you so determined to avoid the rest of us?” He looks up to gauge her reaction. Her expression hasn’t changed, save for an almost amused tilt to her lips.

“Not sure what you mean.” 

“Oh, come on, don’t do that,” Steve mutters before he can stop himself. “After the ice, you think I can't tell when someone's freezing me out?” 

At that, Natasha does give him a grin. “Relax, old man.” Steve blinks. The comment seems more suited to Tony or Clint, and Steve vaguely registers that she could be using humor as a defense mechanism. But somehow that seems too obvious a tactic for her. “Clint and I are leaving soon, that’s all.” She releases her grip on the machine’s handles and stands. “There’s no real point in mingling if I’m not going to stay.”

“So you’re sparing our feelings?”

“Something like that.”

Steve doubts that’s the whole truth, but there does seem to be a hint of it in her words. He chews on the inside of his cheek as Romanoff walks past him, debating if he should push any further. She’s almost out the door.

“Have you actually talked to Clint about it? Because—he seems to want to stay.” He risks glancing over and sees her pause. But he must have imagined it, because she’s gone a moment later. Steve sighs. So that conversation didn’t go anywhere.

The next morning, Steve wakes late enough to miss the sunrise. It’s been happening more often these days, and honestly, it’s kind of nice that some of his military-ingrained patterns are slipping away.

He makes his way down to the communal kitchen to get breakfast and a daily news update from Bruce, but stops short as the elevator doors open. A shock of red catches his eye from the living area.

Natasha’s there, sitting primly in Clint’s lap on the couch, sipping from a tacky holiday mug. Her hair’s pulled up into a loose bun, and she’s dressed more casually than he's ever seen her. Thor’s lounging on the other end of the couch, laughing at whatever they’re talking about.

She glances up as Steve enters. Her posture remains neutral but she holds his gaze, as if challenging him to say something.

Steve looks away first, smiling to himself as he heads over to grab his own cup of coffee.


	2. 2014

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to @likearollingstony on tumblr for beta-reading!

Steve wakes to a darkness that presses in from all sides, shoving itself down his throat and freezing him from the inside out. He’s back in the water, lungs burning while his body goes numb. He’d told himself that he’d accepted his death, but his fingers are still scrabbling for the surface, every drop of the serum that was supposed to make him unbeatable rendered completely useless as the plane fractures around him, dragging him down in an unforgiving vortex, and he’s moments away from losing consciousness for over sixty years, from losing everyone forever, from… 

“_Breathe_, Steve.” 

Natasha. The darkness recedes just enough that he can feel the warmth of her presence beside him, even if he can’t physically reach out to her. He remembers to breathe. Every inhale is sharp and painful, and the chains shackling his wrists above his head clink lightly from his full-body shivers, but the cold is far less oppressive now that he knows he’s not alone. He lets out a slow breath.

“You alright?” Natasha’s voice is calm. She’s somewhere to the right of him, and he squints in her direction, but he can’t make anything out. 

“Yeah, I just—I’m good. How long have I been out?”

“A little less than an hour.”

Okay. He’s been on enough missions with Natasha to fully trust her sense of time, and that’s not too bad. He activates his comms with a subtle click of his tongue. Static. “Are your comms working?”

“No.”

“Shit.”

There’s a pause. “Did Captain America just swear?” He can hear one of Natasha’s tilted almost-smiles in her voice, and he wishes she could see him visibly roll his eyes.

“Captain America was a soldier in World War II, not a nun.” He punctuates this with a sharp pull on the chains, but they don’t give. He jerks them again, straining until he physically rises off of the floor and the metal cuts into his skin. Not an inch.

“They’re composed of some kind of reinforced steel and anchored deep within the wall. Save your strength; you’re just going to injure your wrists with all the pulling. They knew who they were dealing with.”

Steve sighs around catching his breath. “Could’ve said that a second earlier.”

“You would’ve tried anyway,” Natasha says, again with that audible hint of a smile. Steve bites back a huff that would be far too petulant for a 96 year old man.

“You’re awfully calm for someone who’s been captured by enemy forces. This happen to you a lot?”

“Oh, all the time. It’s usually on purpose, though.” Steve can’t entirely tell if she’s joking.

“Wonderful. Glad to be with an expert.” He leans his head back against the wall, attempting to stretch his legs out in front of him. He startles when he feels resistance and hears rattling. His feet are so numb that he hadn’t noticed there were cuffs around his ankles, too. There’s a pulsing behind his eyes that has been building every moment he’s been awake, and it’s getting harder to ignore. “What even happened?”

“Well, how much do you remember?”

Steve shuts his eyes—not that it makes much of a difference with how dark it is. 

Back at the Triskelion, Fury had given him this assignment at the last second. It was _supposed _ to be a covert recon op for the legendary Strike Team Delta, but Clint wasn’t back from his solo mission yet, and Steve was the only one he trusted to take his place by Natasha’s side on such a high-stakes mission. Or at least that’s what Fury had said. Steve had a sneaking suspicion that nobody else wanted to take on a deadly op with a Black Widow who was particularly prickly with worry about her rightful partner, so they saddled the task with a newbie who couldn’t refuse. In any case, Fury’s faith had been misplaced. Steve knows that if Clint was here, working alongside Natasha in that terrifying synchronicity he’s had the honor to see in person—hell, if Clint was just _ back _ and Natasha wasn’t so tense that even Steve has been able to pick up on it—they never would’ve been ambushed. Natasha would have prevented his mistake.

“The exterior walls were too thick for your tech, so you went ahead to see if you could scan the layout of the building from the inside,” he recalls. “I stayed outside to keep a lookout, and then I saw four sentries going in after you. I warned you over the comms, but you didn’t respond for several minutes, so I followed them in. It was dark, nobody was there, and then all of a sudden the sentries—and others, I think—surrounded me. I was fighting, I saw you drop in from somewhere, and—that’s all I remember.” He winces, and his face would probably be burning if he had any warmth in his body to spare. “Sorry, I should’ve known you knew what you were doing. It’s my fault for following you in. I mean—”

“Steve,” Natasha interjects, “stop it. I was in the wrong, too. I could have found some way to signal to you that I hadn’t been taken. Besides, the intel was bad. It’s clear that they’re well trained and they knew we were coming.”

She shifts—he can hear _ her _ chains for the first time, and it’s a wonder that she hasn’t been shivering like him so far. Either it’s part of her apparently superhuman endurance, or she’s passed that point. Steve really hopes it’s the former; he’s pretty sure he read somewhere that once a person stops shivering, they’re close to death. She sounds okay, at least. As unruffled as ever. But sounding however she wants is one of Natasha’s specialties.

“They were able to hit you with a blast from what looked almost like a Chitauri weapon—I’ll need to look into that later,” she continues, the last part almost muttered to herself. He supposes it’s encouraging that she’s so confident in there _ being _ a later. “It was enough to knock you out, and they must have injected you with something to sedate you until now.”

“Well-funded terrorists, huh.”

“Almost certainly state-sponsored,” Natasha agrees, grim. “Especially since their intel was so good that they were prepared to deal with _ you_; Fury didn’t decide to give you the assignment until last night.”

“Great.” Steve’s still catching up on the far more complicated methods and politics of international conflicts in the 21st century. The more he learns, the worse it sounds. “Should we be talking this openly? Aren’t we under surveillance?”

“Their cameras and audio are playing on a loop right now. Didn’t think to sedate me, so I had a chance to fight back.”

He allows himself a moment of dark satisfaction at that. “Stark?”

“His tech has proven to be more reliable than SHIELD’s.” There’s another quiet shuffling and clinking—Natasha seems to be moving a leg. “Speaking of, when are you coming back to the Tower? I think Tony’s missing his favorite verbal target.”

Steve laughs lightly. They should probably be working on an escape plan right now, but his head’s still pounding, so he’ll take the subject change. “Just Tony, huh?”

“I’m sure Thor’s mourning the loss of the only person still willing to spar with him,” she concedes. The smile is back, and Steve finds the corners of his own mouth turning upwards as his teammates come to mind.

“Hey, you don’t live there anymore, either. Don’t pin all their depression on me.” Actually, Steve has no idea where Natasha’s living right now. He doubts she would give him a straight answer if he asked.

“I visit, though.”

“Well, tell them I’m sorry, but I’m not the type of guy who can handle or afford an hour-long flight every morning just to get to work. Take it up with SHIELD. They should move HQ to New York.”

Natasha hums. “They really should. I miss waffle Fridays.”

At this, he feels a full grin forming. “Did the Black Widow just admit to liking something normal?”

“_Shh_.”

“Wow, can’t take what you dish—”

“No, someone’s coming,” Natasha hisses. Steve’s eyes widen, and a moment later, he hears it. Footsteps. Still far, but coming closer. “You’re unconscious,” she orders, and he follows suit without question, forcing his muscles still with considerable effort.

Beside him, Natasha’s chains start rattling, and he’s grateful—he knows it’s partially to mask any movement of his own. Her breathing also changes so that it’s audible and slightly labored, and he fights a frown. That has to be intentional. He’s missing something here, and it’s killing him that his brain is still moving too slowly to put together the pieces.

There’s the click of a lock, a door opens, and light floods in through his closed eyelids. It takes every ounce of willpower he has not to screw up his eyes. The intensity of the light shifts—it must be from a lantern or flashlight. He feels Natasha flinch, and again, though he knows it’s got to be on purpose, he has to fight back an instinct to try and reach out to her.

A gruff voice rings out, haughty and harsh. The man’s speaking French, and Steve concentrates, trying to conjure up everything he remembers about the language.

The man’s asking Natasha if she’s _ ready for another_… another what? Steve’s blood turns cold.

“_I wasn’t told anything else_,” she responds, angry, a convincing tremor in her voice. 

There’s a thud, then Natasha lets out a strangled cry, and even though Steve knows she wouldn't have cried out without meaning to, he can’t help his hands twitching into fists for a moment. Thankfully, the man seems to be too busy gloating to notice.

“_Doesn’t matter. We’ll be in touch with your—_” Here, the man says a word that Steve doesn’t know, but he assumes it’s something along the lines of ‘superiors’. "_They will be wanting the captain back. But perhaps we can keep you._” Steve grits his teeth. 

Natasha says something that he assumes chalks up to _ SHIELD doesn’t negotiate_. There’s an exchange too rapid for him to follow, then what sounds like—fuck. Fuck. The man’s kissing her, and Steve can’t _ do _ anything, and it’s becoming harder and harder to pretend to be a limp rag doll. He hears Natasha spit, probably in the man’s face. Good. Steve’s nerves are on edge, tingling with pinpricks of discomfort, and if he doesn’t move soon, he’s going to combust. 

Finally, finally, the man leaves, but Steve forces himself to remain still even as the deadbolt clicks back into place, taking his cue from Natasha. It isn’t until he can’t hear the footsteps at all that she speaks up. 

“Not bad, Rogers.” Her breathing’s back to normal, and she sounds unbothered, but how much of _ that _ is an act?

“Natasha,” he whispers, unable to hide the horror in his own voice.

“Steve, it’s fine.” Her calm only makes his frustration grow. “More than fine. I got an access badge from him to make things easier when we get out of here.”

He pushes down any inklings of being impressed. She shouldn’t have had to do that to get the badge. “What did he mean when he asked you if you were ready for another… something?”

For a moment, Natasha doesn’t say anything. Then she mutters what sounds like a curse, this time in a language that Steve can’t understand. Then back to English.

“Dernier.”

“What?”

“Your Commandos buddy,” she continues with a groan. “You learned French from him, didn’t you? I can’t believe I didn’t think about that.”

She’s right, of course, but Steve ignores that can of worms for now. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Natasha lets out a long-suffering sigh, which he thinks is supremely unfair of her. It’s not like he’s being _ unreasonable_. “Fine. They interrogated me while you were under. Don’t make it a whole thing.”

“Don’t make it a—” Steve splutters, chains clanging as he tries and fails to throw up his hands. Suddenly the labored breathing, the fake cry of pain—was it even fake? It all makes sense. He shivers with a chill that sinks into his bones, and not just from the cold. “I didn’t realize _ torture _ wasn’t a big deal to you.”

She sighs again. “Stop worrying; it wasn’t that serious, and it wasn’t anything I didn’t let them do.”

“God, that’s worse.”

“It was a good way to get some of the intel we came for, Rogers.”

Steve wants to shake her. “Right, because the Black Widow never fails a solo mission. You know, I used to admire that, but now it just seems reckless.” He can’t seem to stop his mouth from running. “Why do you do that? Why do you give up all of yourself for the sake of a mission? You’re not just a tool for the Russians anymore, Natasha; you don’t have to—”

“Oh, relax—”

“You tell me to relax a lot; have you noticed that?”

“Maybe that’s because you’re a little uptight,” she shoots back. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d say Natasha’s taken on a defensive tone.

“Right, I’m so sorry I’m not completely comfortable with _ voluntary torture_.”

“Well, that’s why I’m the one doing it.”

Definitely not defensive now. Definitely edging towards smug, towards the more comfortable realm of their morbid banter, and Steve isn’t sure if he should let them move into it. 

The last thing he wants to do is drop the subject, because there’s got to be more going on here—fine, he doesn’t have all the details of the situation, and he doesn’t know Romanoff well enough to presume to understand her thought process behind what she does or doesn’t do. But the fact remains that Clint isn’t here, and they don’t know where he is, and Steve can’t shake the feeling that Natasha’s acting differently—reverting, maybe—in some part as a reaction to that.

She hasn’t been communicating as much, she’s taking all these risks to her own safety like they’re nothing, and Steve knows that Clint has historically been a check on at least the latter. But they both know that a conversation isn’t going to go anywhere, and he doesn’t want to risk making Natasha close off.

“We’ll talk about this later.”

“Sure.”

Steve lets out an exasperated breath, but he relents, leaning back. His head is buzzing. “How did you know about Dernier anyway?”

“I do my homework, Cap; it’s my job.” She huffs a small laugh, but there’s no condescension behind it. “Most of your story is also public knowledge.”

“Oh.” He isn’t sure how he feels about that. He supposes he always knew, but it’s something else to have Natasha pluck out a memory of Jacques helping him improve his French around a flickering campfire right before they go behind enemy lines.

“There’s probably a legion of grad students out there who did their dissertation on you,” she continues, still teasing, but with a softened edge to it.

“Anything in particular I should be aware of?”

“I’ll pick out a few papers for you to read.” There’s a little clicking noise, then a small _ chink_, and then Natasha lets out a sigh. “Finally.”

“What?”

“Picked the locks. Don’t tell Clint it took me so long; I’ll never hear the end of it. In my defense, it’s a little harder in complete darkness without a tool or properly functioning fingers.” There’s a shuffling noise as Natasha moves, probably to unchain her feet.

“You—” Steve shakes his head, caught somewhere between grateful and sheepish that he hasn’t been doing a thing this entire time to get them out of here. He’s going to defend himself, too—it’s cold and he’s recovering from being knocked out and drugged, right? And Natasha seems to have been actively distracting him since he woke up in a panic. “You’ve been working on that this whole time?”

“Well, not when our charming friend was in here with us.”

“I didn’t hear you, though.” Steve startles as he feels Natasha’s icy hand on his forearm.

“Discrete lock-picking is day one in spy school,” she says wryly as she fiddles with his handcuffs. A minute later, Natasha frees his left arm, and Steve lets it fall to his side with a sigh of relief. His right arm is released a moment later. He tries to rub some feeling back into his hands.

“Thanks,” he murmurs as she moves on to the cuffs on his ankles. As soon as they’re gone, he stretches his legs, shaking them out.

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re going to have to take point on this next part.”

Steve hears Natasha heading towards the door, and he gets up, trying not to stumble too much as he forces the numb bricks at the ends of his legs to follow her. “Wait, why?”

“Jesus, Rogers, I ask you to do _ one thing_—”

“Natasha.”

“We’ll avoid attracting attention, but this place is too well manned for us to get out without a physical fight.” She starts on the lock on the door—this one must be a great deal more complicated, as he can actually hear her working at it. “And I’m not exactly in the best physical condition right now.”

Steve frowns at that, but resolves not to comment. This becomes harder as they leave and head down the long hallway outside their makeshift prison.

The corridor winds upwards towards the surface, and as they progress, it gets lighter. Before long, Steve can make out the silhouette of Natasha beside him. She isn’t limping or anything, but there’s something noticeably careful in the way that she holds herself. Once they round a bend and reach a door with light pouring in from the cracks, he gets a good look at her. His stomach drops. 

Natasha glares at him. “You don’t look so hot either, you know. How’s your head?”

“Hey, I didn’t say anything. Just impressed that you managed to pick all of those locks with a broken wrist,” Steve manages, nodding to the offending arm curled around her torso. He’s failing at matching her nonchalance; he knows that. It’s just a little hard to do when his partner is sporting dark bruises on her arms and neck while pressing a blood-soaked piece of her uniform to her side with her one good hand. “Let’s get out of here.” _ Before you bleed out in this hallway. _

They make short work of escaping the compound, even retrieving Steve’s shield and some of Natasha’s confiscated arsenal on their way out. She also snags one of the weapons that knocked him out for further analysis back at HQ. She was right; there’s a fight, but it goes a lot better for the both of them now that he doesn’t have to worry about where Natasha’s disappeared to and they’re both prepared for the high-tech weaponry. 

Steve tries to limit his worried glances as they hurry away from the building, especially since Natasha reciprocates with an eye roll every time he does. She’s matching him step for step with seemingly no effort, but he still doesn’t want to risk her exacerbating the injuries.

“I’ve called for extraction. The jet should be here in less than an hour,” she says once the base is out of sight. Steve nods, taking this as a cue to stop. They’re in a stretch of woods, frosted grass crunching beneath their feet. It’s still warmer than it was inside that cell, though.

“Is your side okay? And your wrist? And whatever else I can’t see?” He’s prepared for the eye roll, but what he doesn’t expect is the fond little smile Natasha gives him before she scoffs.

“It’s really not that bad. Helen Cho will make sure the worst doesn’t even leave a scar.” She sits down on the ground, leaning her back against a tree. Steve joins her, masking his surprise when she shifts a bit closer to lean against him, shoulder-to-shoulder. He straightens, glad and gratified to provide any support she’ll allow him. Natasha lets out a sigh.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” he murmurs.

“Not my first rodeo, Rogers.”

Steve lets out a small chuckle. “Right. You want to give me the details of the intel you retrieved? I’ll write up and give the report to Fury.”

“And that’s why it’s great to get injured on missions.”

“Too soon, Romanoff.”

* * *

When Steve exits Fury’s office, he’s fully intending to go check in on Natasha in the medical bay. So it takes him an embarrassingly long moment to realize she’s standing right outside Fury’s door, dressed in civvies and a small smirk as he does a double-take. Her wrist is in a splint and a scarf covers the bruises on her neck, but besides that, you could never tell she’d been suffering under enemy hands just a few hours earlier.

“Should you be here?” Steve makes sure to inject as much exasperation into those few words as he can.

“Helen works fast,” Natasha supplies with a shrug.

“You ever heard of _ recovery _ time?” He knows it’s a futile question from experience, though. Both she and Clint—and Tony and Thor and sometimes even Bruce, actually—are notoriously horrible with adhering to bed rest. Sure enough, she only grins in his face.

“Come on, old man.” She starts down the hall. “And wear a hat.”

“Come on _ where?”_

Another futile question.

Natasha leads him outside to where a frankly ostentatious car is parked. Bucky would have swooned. Steve’s heart twinges in his chest.

It’s a short drive made long with traffic, and Steve groans when he realizes they’ve pulled up to a museum. The National Museum of American History.

“I swear to god, Natasha, if this is all just for a joke—”

She kills the engine. “Don’t you trust me?”

“After what you just pulled on our mission, not really,” he mutters. Natasha doesn't dignify that with a response as they get out of the car. 

He follows her up the marble steps, pulling his baseball cap lower over his face as they step inside. Thankfully, the museum is crowded—it’s only afternoon back here in the US, and there are hordes of tourists and harried parents dragging around their kids on winter break—so nobody gives them a second look. They weave through a few tour groups, and Steve’s about to petition that they head back so he can take a nap when Natasha stops.

It takes him a second to understand what he’s looking at. It seems to be a relatively new exhibit, and the first thing he sees is a large glass screen with a video of a rippling American flag. In front of the flag is an image of his own face from seventy years ago. A male voice narrates the text beside the image. Steve continues into the exhibit, stopping short as he reaches the next screen.

It’s an interview with Peggy.

He blinks back the stinging in his eyes before he turns to Natasha. Words won’t come to his mouth.

“I don’t think you’ve had a chance to fully stop and process everything,” she says softly. “When we were talking about Dernier today, I remembered you probably don’t know about this. It might help.” 

Steve swallows a lump in his throat. “I—thank you.”

Natasha smiles, lopsided but gentle. “This is all just for a joke, remember?” She shifts her weight back into a more relaxed stance. “Do you want some time alone?”

He looks deeper into the exhibit, glimpsing more video screens and photos accompanied by walls of large text, a few displays with uniforms that are achingly familiar. He recognizes faces and his eyes catch on names. His entire life has been laid bare here.

“No, I—" He swallows. "Stay—please. If you want.”

Natasha only gives an easy nod and falls into step beside him, a silent presence siphoning away bits of the pain before it overwhelms him. Steve sticks to skimming the words, letting his eyes linger just long enough to stir something within him without churning. There are photographs he hasn’t seen before, commentaries about him that were filmed after he was gone. One day, he’ll come back here when it’s closed and devoid of people. Then, he’ll properly take in this meticulous record of a legacy he never could have imagined. He’s sure Natasha will help him sneak in.

This works for a while in helping him keep his composure. But then he comes to a panel that he can’t move on from. Bucky’s face looks off to the distance, heroic and solemn, polished in his mint-condition military uniform and Commandos badge. This alone is hard enough to face, but Steve’s breath catches in his throat when he sees another photograph in the glass: Buck grinning, camo rumpled, his arm slung carelessly around Steve’s shoulder. He can almost hear his best friend saying something utterly stupid, easing that tension of war without even trying. And he can hear that cry, echoing between the unforgiving mountains, helpless as Bucky plummets so far that he never hears a thud or sees the body hit the ground.

Steve wrenches his gaze away.

“You know, Clint’s managed to contact me,” Natasha speaks up quietly. “Back while you were reporting to Fury.” He looks over at her, clings to the now.

“That’s good.” His voice is hoarse. 

“He hit a snag, but he’ll be back in a few days. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d heard something happened and I couldn’t do anything about it.” She pauses, meeting Steve’s eyes. “Nobody would truly understand. But I think I'd know I wouldn't have to bear it alone.”

He nods, taking the unspoken acknowledgement for what it is. He can’t quite force a smile, but he knows she can read his gratitude loud and clear.

Natasha is still working on casual touch that isn't with Clint or for a calculated agenda, so Steve understands the weight of what she's doing when she steps closer to him, placing an arm around his waist. He returns the gesture, letting himself lean into her side. The knot below his heart loosens just enough that he can breathe.


	3. 2015

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter takes place between the events of winter soldier and ultron. let's return to some fluff before the angst storm of the next three chapters :)

“So, the prodigal grandfather has returned.”

The groan is leaving Steve’s mouth before he steps out of the elevator. “Good to see you too, Stark.” 

Tony points a screwdriver at him from where he’s standing by the bar. “Fashionably late is one thing, but you know it’s spectacularly bad form to show up last to a gathering _ you _ called, right?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Steve sets down his duffel on one of the couches in the living area. “I got caught up with something. So everyone else is here?”

Tony inclines his head as he pours himself a glass of what looks like a black smoothie. “Bruce is up in his lab. Mr. and Mrs. Bond are somewhere contacting contacts. And I think our resident Norse relic is on call with Dr. Selvig, although I don’t know how an astrophysicist is supposed to help us locate HYDRA bases on this planet.”

“And you’re here…?”

“Grabbing a little liquid energy.” 

“Right, not because you wanted to welcome me back or anything.”

“Mm.” Ever restless, Tony twirls the screwdriver in one hand while bringing the glass to his lips with his other. He’s walking past Steve and up the stairs towards the lab before he finishes his sip. “Your floor’s still yours. If you need anything, let JARVIS know,” he says over his shoulder. 

“Will do, thanks.” Steve hides a smile as he sits down beside his duffel. He unzips it, pulling out a sleek silver laptop courtesy of one Natasha Romanoff. Shortly after they made sure Project Insight was completely shut down, she’d gone back to the Apple store in the mall to buy it for him, because, well. Any and all SHIELD-issued tech had become compromised. It's why Steve is back at the Tower now.

Buried within a mountain of complications that came with exposing SHIELD as HYDRA, there’s one pretty important complication in particular: SHIELDRA has possession of Loki’s scepter. 

It seems that Fury no longer has the resources to take on a base as heavily guarded as the one housing the scepter will be, so he contacted Natasha, who contacted Steve, who contacted Tony. Bruce got involved because he and Tony are a package deal, and Steve felt it was only right to get ahold of Thor, since they _are_ trying to finish the mess his adopted brother started. 

Steve opens the encrypted files from Fury that list known bases still in operation. Bruce and Tony are already trying to come up with a way to track the scepter, but there’s no time to wait around for the technology to be ready before hitting targets and collecting some good old-fashioned intel; the longer they wait, the deeper underground the remaining HYDRA agents go. Steve leans slightly forward, resisting the urge to rub at his temples. The list is easily a hundred items long. He’s sure that Nat and Clint have narrowed it down already, but it’s still going to be a hell of a task to target all these military-grade bases that have definitely quadrupled their security since SHIELD’s collapse. Not to mention getting everyone working effectively as a team again after a nearly three year break. Well, no use agonizing over it. Steve rolls up his sleeves, setting fingers to keyboard. 

It’s less than a minute before the elevator doors open again. 

“Steve!” Thor gestures with one arm and a grin. “It’s been too long, my friend.” 

Steve sets aside his laptop to accept the gruff side-hug. “Much too long. How are you? How’s Asgard?”

Thor shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m doing well. Asgard is... a long story. I will fill you in later.” He shakes his head, brightness returning to his eyes. “Are you looking at information about the scepter?”

“Yeah.” Steve pauses, but decides not to press Thor on a subject he clearly doesn’t want to talk about just yet. “Actually, I could use your help in planning how to infiltrate potential locations. You want to take a look?”

“Gladly.”

Thor does help, a lot, actually. Sometimes Steve forgets that behind the bravado of the legend and beneath the playfulness of his friend, there’s an immortal warrior with more practical battle experience than anyone else he knows.

The planning goes even easier once Natasha and Clint show up with their shortened list of locations and expertise in espionage. 

Steve likes to think that he knows both of them relatively well, now. He definitely considers Nat a good friend, no matter how she avoids the label. But it’s still hard not to be impressed—and more than a little intimidated—when he watches them glance over a blueprint and take about five seconds to point out all the weakest points in the stronghold, then exchange one perfunctory look before proposing a fully-formed infiltration strategy.

They do include Steve and Thor and even JARVIS in their discussions—though they don’t really need the extra input, from what Steve can tell, but he appreciates it. Even when Clint and Thor take them all down a tangent about the strategic merits of grappling hooks versus flying and it takes a good half hour to get back on track.

After a little while, Bruce and Tony drift downstairs too, bringing their work to the living area and contributing muttered calculations and occasional bouts of creative swearing. A proper Avengers reunion.

Steve had no idea how much he'd missed everyone's bickering; maybe Nat was right. Maybe it shouldn't have taken the literal collapse of SHIELD for him to return.

And maybe this whole becoming-a-team-again thing isn’t going to be so hard.

He settles into a quiet concentration, and it isn’t until he notices the sun’s setting that he remembers to stand and stretch. The others turn to him, and Steve notes with a bit of mirth that Tony gives a start when he glimpses the sky darkening outside, too.

“Um.” Everyone’s still looking at him. He glances over at Natasha, who just gives him a shrug, like _ you’re the boss. _ “Okay, we’ve made some good progress so far. But there’s still a lot of work to do." He squares his shoulders. "We’re going to be up against enhanced tech from HYDRA's best scientists with little backup—Maria Hill’s flying here to help coordinate, but we don’t have SHIELD, so we really need to get back into training together again, especially with the Hulk. I think we should—” he stops when he sees Bruce wincing.

The others look less overtly apprehensive, but Tony’s got one eyebrow raised, and there’s a weary set to Clint’s mouth. Steve relents. “We should probably take a break for now. We can worry about all that tomorrow, or at least after getting some dinner.”

“That’s something I can get behind,” Tony says. He swipes away the equations on his screen and pulls up some menus. “Anyone have requests for takeout?”

They end up ordering seventeen dishes across eight different restaurants, not including appetizers. Half of the orders are from Thor, who has become even more well-acquainted with Earth cuisine since the last time Steve saw him.

Once the food arrives and the generous tips have all been distributed, Tony obviously can’t just sit still and eat, so they put a movie on, and soon the sounds of munching and chatter fade into the background of Gene Kelly splashing in puddles. Clint had been the one to pick _ Singin’ in the Rain_, citing it as “old enough for Cap to enjoy” and “just cheesy enough for Nat.” She'd elbowed him in the gut before he could dodge it for that comment.

It’s not the most mellow film in the world, but they’re all so tired and full that people start nodding off into food comas before long. Steve fights a smile as he surveys his team.

Thor has half a slice of pizza drooping from his hand. Bruce’s glasses are askew from his hand propping up his chin. Tony’s curled up in an unassuming way that no longer surprises Steve—back before their first communal nap, he’d always sort of expected the billionaire to sprawl in sleep, taking up as much space as he always did when he was awake. Clint’s legs are tucked under Natasha’s, and his mouth is open in a silent snore. Nat's the only one still awake, and she exchanges an amused look with Steve.

She grabs the remote and turns down the sound from the movie, then closes Clint’s mouth and carefully extricates herself from him. She shifts closer on the couch to talk to Steve.

“Not gonna nap?”

He raises the plastic container in his hand. “Still working on my fried rice. What’s your excuse?”

“Oh, I’ll get around to it. I need an update on your little side project first.”

Steve bumps her shoulder. “You _ do _ care.”

“Don’t get a big head,” Nat says with a cocked eyebrow. “Just want to make sure those files I pulled for you are actually being put to good use.”

“Right, right.” Steve sets down the container and settles into the couch cushions. “Honestly, it hasn’t been going all that well,” he admits. “I don’t think Bucky wants to be found. We’ve really been chasing cold leads for a while now, and,” he shrugs, “you know. Finding the scepter takes precedence.” It comes out a little more bitter than he intends. 

Natasha is quiet for a beat before answering. “We, huh? So, you and Wilson have been hitting it off?” 

Steve looks up sharply to see a dangerous glint in her eye. It surprises a laugh out of him, the sound echoing through the living space before he catches himself and stifles it. “What the fuck, Natasha.”

“You think I’m giving up on your love life, old man?” Her smile has a smug edge to it now, a side of her that Steve’s starting to see more and more of. “Hey, I took the hint; maybe girls aren’t your thing. And there’s nothing like a couple near-death experiences to bring people together.”

“Like you and Clint?” Steve nods at where he knows an arrow pendant rests beneath Natasha’s sweater.

He’d noticed it before, back when they’d been on the run from SHIELDRA, but hadn’t felt comfortable enough to ask about it then. Now, though—well, Natasha’s right. Near-death experiences do bring people together. “That’s who the necklace is for, right?”

Natasha huffs out a laugh, glancing away. “Yeah, he got it for me. Clint’s a narcissist,” she adds, though something soft in her eyes belies the hard scoff.

“You know, I think the Black Widow’s secretly a hopeless romantic.”

She snaps her gaze back to him. “Say that again and you’ll find a dagger in your eye.”

He mouths the words _ hopeless romantic _ like the mature adult he is, and she takes the high road and shoves him. Steve has to grab onto the back of the couch in order to keep himself from thudding to the ground and waking four particularly light sleepers, and it takes him a minute to compose himself enough that he trusts he won’t burst into laughter if he meets Natasha’s eyes.

“Fine, but it's your turn to give me an update. How has that journey of self-discovery after dumping everything on the internet been going?”

She raises and lowers a shoulder, taking a second before speaking. “Also on hiatus, I suppose.”

Steve nods, thinking that’s going to be the end of it. But before he can reply, Natasha continues.

“It’s kind of funny,” she murmurs. She props her feet up on the coffee table, nudging aside an empty glass. “I think I was more sure of my identity when my identity could be anything.”

Nat doesn’t have any reliable tells, but Steve can almost see the uncertainty in her brow, and he knows it really means something that she’s letting him in like this. He's glimpsed flashes of her vulnerability before, like when they'd thought Fury was dead, and again when they'd been on the run and hiding in Sam's house.

But this... this feels different. This feels like her opening up to him by choice, instead of as a reaction to events outside of anyone's control. Opening up because she wants to, and not in order to make _him_ feel more at ease. And the walls aren't coming back up immediately this time.

“You’ll get there. You’ll find an identity again.”

She gives him a small, wry smile. “Have you? Outside of Captain America the national symbol, that is.”

Well, shit. She's got a point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really sorry for the delay; I caught a bad case of writer's block while working on this. seriously, thank you to everyone who kudosed and commented! it really was the best encouragement for me to keep going.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me [on tumblr](https://amateurwordbender.tumblr.com/)!


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